


White Elephant

by 221BFakerStreet



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 3
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Conditioning, Explicit Language, Jason is a little shit, M/M, Mild S&M, Sexual Content, Stockholm Syndrome, Surprise! Vaas is alive, Vaas being Vaas, Vaason, emotional fuckery, neither one of them knows what they're doing actually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-28 17:35:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6338674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221BFakerStreet/pseuds/221BFakerStreet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jason Brody is lost in the wilderness, and he may never find his way home. Vaas has let his friends go on the condition that Jason stays behind. Citra and Hoyt are both dead, the Rakyat are falling apart from the inside, and even now Jason cannot tell where he ends and the island begins. He thought that maybe he had found his way back from the brink, but the path is ever shifting.</p><p>Vaas is crazy like a fox, but he’s also just crazy. He and Snow White have been circling each other like tigers, ready to pounce, ready to kill. But every single time, they crawl away from each other with only scars to show. And Jason Brody is looking more and more like a wild animal that Vaas needs to bring to heel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Some Nights

**Author's Note:**

> FAIR WARNING: I currently have like half of this written. I am a busy busy bee, so no telling when it will be finished, but I have an outline so there's that. I think that this first part can stand on its own, so I'm comfortable posting it as is right now.
> 
> Unbeta'd, so if you notice grammar stuff, or something that's worded oddly, please let me know.
> 
> P.S. Part 1 officially inspired by the only song by "fun." that I have ever enjoyed listening to.
> 
> P.P.S. I'M SORRY FOR MY AWFUL SPANISH. I DID THE BEST I COULD.

 

Jason stands like a stone at the water’s edge. The sun bears down on him, pressing him into the sand with molten fingers. Vaas stares across the empty beach between them, the beginnings of a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.

“Jason,” Riley whispers, and he can almost taste the fear in his little brother’s voice.

 _Let’s go, J_.

He’s not sure if it’s Riley or Grant speaking, because the salt air whispers to him too, like the buzzing of a gnat in his ear. _Let the ghosts go_ , it says. But here’s a ghost now, standing and staring at him like the cat that caught the canary after all.

“Vaas,” he says. The men standing next to the pirate king step forward, guns drawn. They’re only stopped in their tracks by a wave of Vaas’ hand. Jason notices now the bandages peeking out from underneath the red tank top, the darker stains along his chest that could be sweat but are probably blood. He tries to remember how long it’s been, but his brain can’t quite get there through the haze of drugs and fog of war. Lost in the jungle. _Back to square one, eh?_ He almost giggles.

“’Ey, blanquito! You miss me?” The smile on the man’s face is full and wide, but his eyes spell murder as they pierce right through his own. “’Cause I missed you! Hell of a way to let a guy down, hermano.” He stalks forward, every step solid and meaningful. His eyes don’t move from Jason’s at all.

 _Kill them, Jason_. Citra’s voice is in there too, now. Or is it Vaas? Are his lips still moving? They are, he sees, but not those words. Riley then? Is Riley telling him to kill the pirates? To kill his friends? He blinks harshly, feeling the grit in his eyes.

“Pretty fuckin’ _harsh_ for a pretty pretty princess, eh? You mother _fucker_!” Vaas’ fist slams into his face like a hammer, and all he can do is listen to the sound of his jaw creak as he stumbles back into the surf. There’s a scream behind him- maybe Liza- and his head spins. He lunges forward and tackles Vaas to the ground. Wouldn’t normally be this easy, he knows, but they’re both a little fucked up anyway.

They tussle on ground, scattering sand and blood, trading punches. Jason locks his legs around Vaas’ waist, hands gripping the shorter man’s throat. The crazy pirate is ninety percent muscle though, for how compact he is, and when he bucks his hips, Jason’s hands slip and he’s tossed to the side. Vaas is on him in an instant, raining down blow after blow until all Jason can do is pull up his arms to protect his head.

It goes on forever, Jason thinks, until it hurts to breath. Until Vaas’ blood has soaked both their shirts from his reopened wounds. And as suddenly as it began, it stops. There is a weight on his body, Vaas pushing himself up using Jason’s battered chest to steady himself. “Hijo de puta…” he mumbles, and then kicks viciously at Jason’s ribs. “Look what the _fuck_ you did!”

Jason tries to roll over, to push himself up, but his hands only scrabble over rocks and sand until he feels the press of a boot on his upper back. It’s not even harsh, just a steady pressure and he’s flat on the ground again. He kicks and grunts and growls as they move to tie his hands behind his back, hurls insults until he is panting and his heart feels like it will burst with the violent thrumming inside it. His vision turns dark at the edges, peeling away the skin of the world, gives everything a sepia tone.

“You got a choice to make here, cabrón.” Jason doesn’t know how long it’s been, if he just blacked out for a second. His hands hurt; they must have used a zip tie. Vaas adjusts his holster, and then pulls his gun from it, the metal glinting in the sun as he turns it over in his hands. “Your friends, Jason, we don’t need them. I don’t fucking care about them, ok. But _you_ …” He lifts the gun, uses the barrel to scratch at his scalp, and then points it somewhere behind Jason, where he can hear another shout and- that’s definitely Liza crying now, louder than all the times before. “Jason, I _can’t_ let you go buddy. But it’s really- it’s up to you, you know, what happens to your friends. I know you did a _lot_ here to save them, and I’m a nice fuckin’ guy, right? So… I wanna hear you say it.” He takes a step closer, leaning down just a bit. “You say it and these bitches ride off into the sunset.”

It takes him a minute to find his voice, raspy and pained. “And what if I don’t?”

Vaas smiles then, a soft thing, and pulls the hammer back until it clicks. His eyes are soft too, now, Jason thinks, with something like pain. With something more than pain. And Jason knows. He knows he knows he _knows_ that on any given day Vaas Montenegro would sooner cut out his own still-beating heart than be anything like his sister. He knows that everything comes with a price, and what it’s like to be the only one willing to pay.

He remembers like it was years ago, the rush of Grant’s blood over his hands as he tried to staunch the flow. The feeling every time after, how their blood never felt any different; just as warm, and gone just as quickly. How many brothers had he killed? How many sons? He swallows down the hysterical laughter bubbling up in his throat, and looks into those dark brown eyes, unable to tell where the pupil ends and iris begins. And he’s tired now, more than he’s ever been in his life.

“I’ll stay,” he says, more calmly than he should be able to manage. He doesn’t try to move, doesn’t want to see the terror and pain on his little brother’s face at his betrayal. Doesn’t want to admit that the choice had already been made; that he knew deep down he’d never leave this place alive. Vaas looks at him like he’s a god damned present on Christmas morning just waiting to be unwrapped, so Jason turns his gaze down. Because he can’t do anything else. Because he can’t be any other way.

“You and me… Vaas,” he says, blood and spit spreading into the sand where his cheek is pressed against the beach. “It’s always been… you… and me.” The effort it takes him to speak is obvious in his gasping breaths, in the way his shoulders slump even with his arms bound behind his back. He sounds small and pleading and bereft, unable to look the insane pirate in the eye when he admits the truth.

It seems like an eternity just listening to the waves, to the white noise curdling his brain, before he hears the crunch and shift of Vaas’ boots in the sand. He can taste the salt from the sea water drying on his lips, the tang of blood on his tongue.

“Hey, hey hermano.” It isn’t until he feels warm, dry knuckles drag across his cheek bones that he realizes he’s actually crying. His eyes close and he chokes on a sob. The cries and threats of his friends sound like thunder rumbling in the distance. Like a storm is coming. Jason’s very skin aches, as though his whole body is a bruise.  A calloused hand gently cups his face before moving down to grab his chin in a vice grip, forcing his head back so that he can feel the cool ocean breeze and the spit of the surf on his face.

“Look at me, Jason.” Vaas’ other hand smacks Jason’s cheek, and he gives a sharp, short whistle. His eyes flutter open, and he watches the burning halo of the sun stutter behind the pirate’s mohawk. For a moment he wants to reach out and touch it, comb his fingers through it until he can’t feel his hands anymore. “Good boy. Now’s not the time for that pussy shit, Snow White.”

Vaas’ fingers curl gently into his hair, and god help him but Jason leans into it.

“I’ve got you.” The pirate’s voice rumbles into his ear, hot breath down his neck. “I _get_ you, Jason. Somos de la misma sangre.” He shivers and nods quietly, something inside of him keening like a wounded animal.

Everything blurs together as Vaas’ men lift him up and walk him away from the water. The khaki colored sand, the verdant green of the island vegetation, they all bleed into each other, bright reds and dark blacks dotting the watercolor landscape as they move. The sound of the boat moving farther away turns to the shuffling of sand beneath many sets of feet. The calls of his friends soon become the screeches of gulls. The waves lap endlessly at the shore. And Jason floats.


	2. White Elephant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so...  
> I'm honestly not sure how happy I am with this chapter. Sometimes I feel like it needs more, then I look over it again and think it needs much less. I'm probably just chasing my tail with this now, so I figured I'd just throw it out there and let it fall where it may.
> 
> This chapter is barely edited, definitely not beta'd, but I wanted to get it out. Here is where a lot of the psychological/emotional fuckery comes into play, so gird your loins and prepare for Jason getting his metaphorical shit kicked in.
> 
> Again, feel free to let me know if there's stuff I need to fix.

He is woken by a shout, which turns into a tumble of voices. It dies down quickly enough, soon muffled by the sturdy press of trees and bushes, nothing but a brief skirmish between comrades. His left eyelid is swollen, and he can feel his jaw throbbing in pain even without moving it.

"Ay, chiquita! Look like you was rode hard and put away wet." Vaas' voice floats to him on a warm breath of air, and Jason groans as he turns his aching head to the side. His head feels alternately like it might fly away, and then like it could sink an ocean liner with its weight. He's having a hard time keeping track of thoughts, because they go as quickly as they come.

"V-Vaas?" His voice is scratchy and seems to come from far away. He closes his eyes again, just for a moment, and soon there is a cool wet rag on his forehead. Shivers wrack his body at first, spreading the ache from his head down to his ribs, his arms, his legs. He didn’t even hear Vaas move.

"No no no no, Jason. This won't do." Vaas is whispering to him now, but it sounds as loud as it ever has before, and louder still. He wants to say something, but the air is too wet and heavy, and his throat is too dry. He can't make his mouth work. With effort, he manages to lift his hand. Those deep black eyes stare at him from a face with an inscrutable, lopsided grin. The back of his own hand sweeps across the pirate's cheek, accidentally gentle, and he can't remember  _why_. Can't remember anything at all. 

"It's okay, hermano," Vaas says, and Jason can feel the rumble of his voice in the bones of his fingers. A warm calloused hand slides up to grip his own where it rests against Vaas' face. "We gonna fix you up good. I take care of my things, comprendes?" 

Jason feels his stomach roil with something tense and strange. The world has a habit of spinning around him these days, like a game of musical chairs that never ends. Every time the music stops, he never knows exactly where he'll land. His hand slips down Vaas' chin, scraping stubble, brushing his lips. He feels fingers through his hair and chokes on words he cannot begin to say out loud. 

The last thing he hears that night is Vaas telling him to sleep.

\---

The jungle saps you of humanity by degree, Jason thinks. He has nothing to do _but_ think. His limbs lay heavy and aching on the woven mat where he sleeps. Minutes slide by like syrup on a pancake and sometimes the room is baked by the sun, sometimes cool and damp with dew. It's difficult to tell where he is, and when. His fingers twitch in his sleep, but there are no triggers to pull. The scope of his life whittles down to sunlight and shadow; guilt and comfort finding purchase in his heart in equal measure.

He wakes to the dull scrape of metal doors, or the screeching warble of birds of paradise. And there is a mumble, always, in the back of his mind. Grant used to read him bedtime stories with their mom; it sounds a little like that. When he thinks at all, he tries not to think of home, not least of all because he can’t be certain where that is anymore.

His dreams stretch through vast deserts, into small basement rooms sour with sweat and vomit; beyond that, still, down hallways where the scents of laundry detergent and blood battle each other and sting his eyes. Where he enters the door without it opening at all, and sees Vaas standing over his father’s body, a freeze-frame in time from another dimension. Grant’s voice babbles in bursts of static over the radio behind the chair.

In his dream, he has a gun. A simple six-shooter, gleaming in the low light from the den. He lifts it carefully, points it at Vaas, and pulls the trigger, but the bullet comes for him instead. He sees it as it goes, every time, inching closer.

And every time he wakes up flinching.

\---

When the fever finally breaks, Vaas assures Jason that he's been taking a three day nap. Tells him: "Snow White was a really fuckin' apt name, cabrón". Jason has the fleeting thought that maybe Vaas has kissed him awake, but it's gone as soon as a cup is pressed into his trembling hands. He feels like he could drink for days.

He tries to speak, and coughs instead. Breathes for just a moment, looks around. The room is small, with high windows along the far wall. His sleeping mat is pushed up in the darkest corner of the room, and Vaas stands barefoot in front of what seems to be the only door in the place. He almost thinks to ask where they are, doesn’t think Vaas will tell him though. Instead he clears his throat, prods at his aching ribs.

“Does that make you Prince Charming?” At this, Vaas’ smile breaks into full on laughter. Jason can’t help the tepid smile that forms on his lips. The world feels as fragile as glass, just on the edge of falling. He can’t help but feel as though he’s trapped in a cage with a tiger, unsure whether it’s Vaas or himself that he’s more worried about.

He can see something red move just outside the doorway, and realizes that there must be guards out there. Of course there are, he tells himself, he’s too dangerous to leave unguarded. The way Vaas is suddenly looking at him makes him think that maybe the sadist is more worried about his new pet escaping than he is about any of his men dying in the process.

The man moves like a tiger, too, all sinewy muscle and kinetic grace. He comes to a stop crouched just before Jason. He must have seen Jason looking at the door, because his hand comes up harsh and slaps him. Before Jason can react to the blooming of new pain on his already battered skin, the older man’s hands are already wound through his hair, gripping tight and bringing their foreheads together, all sweat and skin and somehow gentle.

“Jason, listen to me. You listening?” He seems to be waiting for an answer, so Jason responds with a tight nod, and Vaas continues.

“You even _think_ of leaving...” He grinds their foreheads together, closes his eyes and sucks a breath in through his bared teeth. “I will fucking _drag_ your lily white ass back to this _fucking_ room. And you won’t like what happens then ok... Ok Snow White?”

“Yeah, Vaas.” Jason’s reply is tremulous and quiet. Vaas slowly loosens his grip on the younger man’s hair until he’s actually smoothing it down. Like maybe it’s meant more for comforting him than it is for Jason. That deep black gaze settles on him once again, and he finds that he can’t look away.

Vaas says something else that Jason can’t quite hear or remember once he leaves. He just sits on his straw mat for a while, staring at the door his captor left from. Realizes that even if he _did_ try to leave, there would be nowhere for him to go.

\---

They fall into a pattern.

Vaas comes by twice a day with food and drink. At first there’s not much conversation, Vaas just drops the stuff off and picks it up at the next meal. Sometimes, Jason talks. He hasn’t talked to another person in who knows how many days and the sadistic fuck who has made his life hell for the past month or so is just as good as the next person, really. Better, even, because at least he’s real.

This time he wakes up to a fumbling at the door, a scrabble of key against lock, and soft cursing. Suddenly, Vaas is tumbling into the room, a bag slung over his shoulder. He manages to swing the door back nearly into place. Jason blinks into the darkness of the room, only a swath in the middle carved out by moonlight. The pirate shuffles across the dirt floor toward Jason’s bed, rolls almost gracefully into a fall. Jason _swears_ he can hear the man giggling.

“Vaas?” he asks, voice hesitant and sleep rough. Another giggle this time, clearer. Closer. Jason sits up slowly, as if he’s trying not to spook a wild animal. Which he might as well be, because he’s pretty sure Vaas is high as a kite right now.

“Hey, Jase.” There’s the sound of shuffling fabric, and then something cool and round is pressed into his hand. “I got you a present, cariño. Here.”

He holds it up in front of his face, leaning toward the middle of the room to use what little light the moon provides so he can see what it is. He recognizes it now, the dimpled rind of a lychee, no bigger than a golf ball. These are actually bigger than the ones back hom- back in Cali. He tries not to think about walking through farmer’s market stalls with Liza at his side, their hands brushing together every now and then; the way Ollie and Vincent would tease him about it later but would end up smoking a bowl or three and eating all the food he bought anyway. He tries not to crush the fruit in his fist. _Vincent is dead. Liza and Ollie are safe. You made your choice._

It’s only as his breathing settles to a normal level that he realizes Vaas is staring at him, eyes wide in the dark.

“Th-thanks.” He forces the word out past the rock somehow lodged in his esophagus.

Vaas reaches out, and Jason flinches back, half expecting to get hit for not accepting the man’s gift, or for looking at him or _not_ looking at him- or whatever imagined slight could be invented in the span of a minute. Instead, Vaas caresses his forehead, traces gentle lines down the bridge of his nose. Ghosts over Jason’s lips with the pad of his thumb.

“Jason,” he says, low and reverent. Leans impossibly closer. Jason’s breath comes harsh once more, his heart trying to dislodge the pain in his throat.

“Jason,” he whispers. The pirate’s hand drags down over his bare chest, curls down over his hip and settles there. He gives a sigh, and leans his head on Jason’s shoulder. “Estás aquí?”

He swallows hard, his left hand hovering somewhere over Vaas’ shoulder.

“Be here, ok?” This is not the commanding voice of a leader or the psychotic scream of a sadistic pirate, but rather the timorous pleading of a child. Jason presses his hand against the warm skin of Vaas’ shoulder, strokes gently down his back.

“I’m here, Vaas.” He’s not really sure what he’s doing. He could be poking a viper with a fucking stick for all he knows. But he tries not to hold his breath as he pulls Vaas down to the woven mat with him. Vaas is laying over him now, the weight of him somehow… reassuring? Jason doesn’t want to unpack that right now. There are a lot of things, in fact, that he’d rather not face. His eyelids are heavy and sleep is pulling him under. He knows without any real thought that Vaas won’t be here in the morning.

They fall into a pattern.

\---

When Vaas is not there, Jason counts the ripples in the tin walls, traces with his fingertips where it abruptly turns from metal into chipboard paneling. He hears voices outside, but he never asks about going out. Vaas is the only person he can ask, and he seems to have an aversion to letting Jason see daylight right now.

He starts doing circuits of the room to pass the time; he can do that now that his _everything_ doesn’t ache with each movement. It may have been a week in here by now? It’s hard to tell sometimes. Most of the time. Days just bleed into one another, and he can’t be bothered to tell them apart. He does push-ups when the walking gets boring. When the push-ups stop doing it for him, he does sit-ups. As intellectually stifling as it feels, he tries not to talk to himself. He’s afraid he might start to hear people talking back. Again. More? Time could be moving backwards in this shitty little hut, and he wouldn’t even know.

When the sun goes down and Vaas still hasn’t come, Jason starts to worry. He feels the wriggling worm of panic beginning to burrow into his stomach, and tries to regulate his breathing. Breathe in. _He’s busy; he’ll be here any minute._ Breathe out. _He’s leaving you here. You did something, or said something._ Breathe in. _You’ll die in here._

He’s pounding on the door before he really knows what he’s doing, his limbs almost numb with sheer terror. He isn’t even sure what he’s saying, maybe screaming Vaas’ name, maybe crying for his mother, Grant. Anybody. The fear burns white-hot on his skin, and tears blur his vision as he falls to his knees still scraping at the heavy metal door.

Nobody is coming.

_Nobody is coming for you, Jason._ Citra’s voice is cloying and bile rises in his throat. _He will leave you here to die, and you will deserve it._

\---

By the end of the second day with no sign of the pirate king, he’s lost count of the number of sit-ups he’s done just trying to keep sane. His mouth feels like a desert. He lies on his bed and stares out the windows into the green rush of trees reaching up toward the sun. Someone outside the hut calls out, and the guard at his door laughs loudly. He dreams of slitting the man’s throat with a machete, watching the blood spill, lapping it up. Even sunken into delirium, he groans in disgust at how much he isn’t disgusted by the thought. Jesus _Christ_ , but he’s thirsty.

He rolls onto his side and curls into a ball on the bedroll, covering his head with his hands. He wants to murder the son of a bitch who’s just fucking _standing_ out there shedding skin cells while in here he dies. He wants Grant to come save him, or- or any of his friends. He wants the comforting weight of Vaas fucking Montenegro pressing him down into the earth so that he doesn’t feel like he’s floating away anymore because he feels that way all the time these days.

Sleep comes in fits and bursts, but at least now he doesn’t dream.

\---

He has been staring at the door for three hours (Maybe. He thinks.) by the time he hears the shouting. At first he ignores it, now used to the rambunctiousness of young, bored pirates in residence giving each other hell. But then the sound multiplies, blooms outward from the source like a newly tapped spring. Jason doesn’t want to believe that he can hear Vaas’ angry tones in the midst of the shouting; doesn’t want to hope again, because it makes his chest _ache_ with the wanting of it.

As the sound approaches him, he manages to make himself sit up. Maybe they’re coming for him now, to finish what Vaas started- eons ago, it feels like. But he’s not going to die like a mange-rotten dog in the jungle. He tells himself this as he sways side to side, fingers gripping his pants, the edge of the bedroll. He has spent too much of his life just waiting in places to become different things, while he can feel the very cells in his body dying and living and dying again.

There is a commotion at the door, and-

“You stupid fucking _piece of shit_!” Vaas’ screaming is punctuated by the steady crunch of bone, so loud that Jason can hear it from where he sits, stunned. The door opens and he sees the red mess of what used to be a man being slowly dragged away from the older man’s boots. Thinks maybe the guy’s still groaning.

His eyes travel up past the ravaged and bloody knuckles, and further still. Vaas looks like he might murder someone else. He looks like he might cry.

Jason cannot trace the moments in between when Vaas is standing in the doorway, and when he’s crouched down by his side, fingers tracing that familiar path over his face. Carving words into his skin without saying a thing. All too briefly, he is enveloped in the warmest embrace he thinks he’s ever felt.

“Slow, cariño. Here.” Vaas tips a canteen toward his lips, and Jason sips carefully at first. The water rushes in, and he chokes. The canteen is drawn away, and Vaas’ fingers are in his hair again. And his hair is probably filthy, he thinks, but Vaas doesn’t seem to care. He mumbles things in Spanish that Jason doesn’t understand, and signals one of his men for something.

He lets Vaas manhandle him back onto the bedroll. When the older man tugs at his shirt, Jason shifts to help him, and soon he is naked from head to toe. There are more voices; the stutter of a scared young man, the stilted timbre of the pirate leader trying not to lose his shit on all of his men due to the insubordination of one. Vaas doesn’t like it when other people play with his things, try to break his favorite toys. The more cynical parts of Jason’s brain want to blame it all on Vaas, even as the cool drip of clean water hits his dirt streaked skin. But it’s getting harder to deny. The way he feels when Vaas pushes him around. How electricity thrills up his spine when his touch turns rough and his grip tightens, the slaps that thin his oxygen and center his world and bring him clarity. And now, here, where he unfolds and opens with a single caress.

The wet cloth moves gently over Jason’s skin, easing lower down his body with every pass. He doesn’t get fully hard when Vaas’ other hand cups his dick, is too exhausted and dehydrated to even think of coming; Vaas is just cleaning him, anyway. But the pleasure thrums beneath the pain, as steady as a heartbeat. He sighs and his hand finds its way, fumbling, to the hem of Vaas’ singlet. He rolls the fabric between his fingers, breathes in the smell of jungle and sweat and blood.

“It’s you and me, Jase,” Vaas says, apropos of nothing. And Jason smiles.


End file.
